Film Studies
by i-must-go-first
Summary: Anything, *anything* was better than another Sunday afternoon alone, even spending time with Captain Sharon Raydor. - A new multi-chapter Brenda/Sharon relationship story written for the Brenda/Sharon Month of Love on tumblr.
1. 101: Ladri di biciclette

**Word count:** 2,745

**Pairing:** Brenda/Sharon

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** Anything, _anything_ was better than another Sunday afternoon alone, even spending time with Captain Sharon Raydor. - A new multi-chapter Brenda/Sharon relationship story written from the Brenda/Sharon Month of Love on tumblr.

_**Author's note: Be forewarned: this story is set in the Major Crimes universe**; but since it prominently features one Brenda Leigh, I have elected to post it here rather than in the Major Crimes tag (so please don't message me and tell me I need to move it - I think it belongs here, where people who like Brenda/Sharon stories have a better chance of being able to find it). You don't need to watch Major Crimes to read this story, because it really is a relationship story. For those of you who do watch Major Crimes, the first few chapters fit with canon through the first summer episodes of season two, and then deviate from there on. I have completed five chapters, or approximately half the story, so you don't need to worry that it won't be updated. And, as always, thank you very, very much for reading, and especially for commenting, favoriting, and following. _

**Film Studies 101: Ladri di biciclette (a.k.a. the meet-cute)**

**The film: **_**Ladri di biciclette**_** (**_**The Bicycle Thieves, usually erroneously translated as The Bicycle Thief**_**), dir. Vittorio De Sica, 1948**

"You mean they don't even have _popcorn_? What kind of movie theater doesn't have popcorn?"

Sharon hid a smile in her summer scarf as she unbuttoned her lightweight jacket. A clot of foul weather was clinging to the L.A. area, making it unseasonably wet and cool for June. "The kind that's in an art museum," she replied.

"And this movie is like three hours long? You're evil."

"It's an hour and a half, Rusty. Besides, I promised you dinner afterward, right? And you chose to come see the film."

"Yeah, when you decided it was this or the ballet," he groused, flopping down and attempting to get comfortable. Ninety minutes of a black and white film with subtitles and without popcorn or soda? He scrounged in his sweatshirt pocket, hoping his fingers would encounter the crinkly wrapping of one of the peppermints Sharon had stuffed in there last week when he'd had a cold. This was some lame-ass way to be spending a Sunday afternoon, especially when, unlike almost every other teenager in the world, he was being denied a summer vacation. A few months ago he would have made some snide remark about the captain wanting to cram him full of what she called 'culture' because she didn't want a white-trash kid from a trailer park cluttering up her condo; now he knew that this was just Sharon's way, and in theory he even thought it was not a terrible idea. His friend Chris knew all kinds of stuff about art and drama and what people ate for breakfast in China and where to get the best croissants in Paris; Rusty thought his knowledge of L.A.'s best hamburger joints paled in comparison. But in practice, now that he was actually stuck here with no escape route, not so much. He sighed gustily.

Sharon turned to face him. "Rusty, if you really don't want to be here, we can go."

Her expression was neutral, but he caught the tiny droop at the corners of her mouth and felt like a jerk. At moments like this he remembered how she had cried last fall when he'd accused her of wanting to get rid of him.

"Okay, okay," he grumbled, so maybe she wouldn't catch on. "I'll give it a chance."

She settled back, looking so pleased that Rusty felt - he wasn't sure what. A certain kind of responsibility, maybe. Like not just because Sharon had given him a place to live that didn't have tires and a gas pedal and he owed her something as a result; but because she had chosen to care about him and that gave him the power to influence her in a way that was different from a parent-child relationship. Or maybe, as a sixteen-year-old, he just felt like he should shut up about the popcorn and bear it.

"I get to pick the restaurant, right?"

She closed her eyes, tilting her head back against the seat for a second, and he knew she was resigning herself to yet another hamburger. But all she said was, "That was the deal, as long as you pay attention to the film."

He grinned and settled back too as the lights dimmed. Maybe he'd surprise her. But first he'd wait and see just how bad this movie turned out to be.

The woman who had just entered the screening room and was navigating uncertainly in the darkness was as dubious as Rusty, but for different reasons. She slid into an aisle seat, hoping that she wasn't smack dab next to a stranger in a theater that was only half full, and let her eyes close. She'd known it was time for a change of scenery when the tears that had threatened all day had overflowed as she stood before a Chagall. ("I know," an enraptured art student had breathed, "isn't it astounding?") The darkness of the museum's screening room, where a film was on the point of beginning, had seemed an inviting choice. But how likely was an Italian film about bicycles, of all things, to keep her mind off her woes? She didn't go to movies. She hadn't been in the habit of frequenting art museums since her time at Georgetown. But anything, _anything_ was better than another afternoon home alone in an empty house.

She was so sick of her own thoughts that she was keenly relieved when the movie started.

After a while she realized a segment of her brain was processing the plot as if she were still a cop. _The theft of a bicycle_, it intoned, pedantic, _may seem like a minor incident. However, as we see here, the bicycle may represent an entire family's means of subsistence, so that the theft results in unemployment, further crime, a burden on the legal and social welfare systems, and even death. For these reasons, it is imperative that crime prevention rather than detection be the primary objective of the police, q.e.d._

She sighed to herself as the lights came up and someone near her sniffled. What was wrong with her? Had she lost the ability to feel the simple, tragic beauty of the human condition? Here she was, wanting to file a report and make rules to stop it. Maybe that girl earlier had been right. Maybe the Chagall _was_ astounding, and her senses were too blunted by experience to perceive it.

So much for distracting herself from her problems. Instead she had discovered new ones. With a sigh, she scooped up her crumpled raincoat and thrust one arm into the sleeve.

"... yeah, exactly. They stole his bicycle, and it ruined his life. He couldn't contribute and be a, you know, productive member of society. And that, Sharon, is why you should give me back the car."

The voice, Brenda registered vaguely, was familiar, but the one that replied was unmistakable.

"We've had this conversation. I didn't take the car away in order to punish you. But at least I know you were paying attention to one of the masterpieces of Italian neorealismo. So where do you want to go for dinner?"

Brenda froze with her back turned to the aisle. They were walking toward her; in seconds they would go by. Uncharacteristic indecision assailed her. Running into them was a remarkable coincidence, like some kind of sign in the midst of her bleak day. But on the other hand there was relief, as if she'd dodged a bullet. They would walk by, and she wouldn't have to make polite conversation, interact with actual humans.

Sharon's smooth head was inclined toward the boy's. "What did you think?" she asked, adjusting the strap of her purse over the shoulder of the black trenchcoat Brenda had seen grace countless crime scenes.

"Well, we studied World War II in history, but, like, were things really that bad in Italy after the war? The people were that poor?"

"They were, especially in the south. De Sica wanted the film to be as realistic a representation of post-war life as possible. The characters weren't played by professional actors. But the film is also a social commentary on the way -"

"Capt'n Raydor! Rusty! Yoohoo!"

Rusty's expression was priceless. _Yoohoo?_ Then he grinned, clearly amused. "Brenda! Sharon, it's Brenda."

Sharon's eyebrows had risen above the rims of her glasses - new ones, Brenda noted, maybe to go with her new haircut. "I see that. Hello, Brenda. I wouldn't have taken you for a neorealismo enthusiast."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Both Sharon and Rusty blinked, and Brenda flushed at her own defensiveness. "This is quite a coincidence. Imagine runnin' into you two here, of all places."

Sharon's lips quirked, and Brenda was sure what she was thinking. Where else were they likely to run into one another - the firing range?

"Yes, Rusty is humoring me."

"So, Rusty." Bright-eyed, Brenda turned to the teenager. "I guess an awful lot has happened since I saw you."

"Yeah. I guess," he agreed with caution.

"You're goin' to a new school? Makin' friends?"

"Catholic school." Rusty tilted his head toward his guardian. "Her idea."

The awkwardness of the moment was palpable. Brenda wondered why she'd thought this would be preferable to being left alone. She'd spent years evading the notice of Captain Raydor, and now she was courting it?

"We're on our way to dinner." The older woman paused. "Would you care to join us?"

Brenda thought she was going to say no. But Sharon smiled in that way she had, when her lips curved but her eyes widened with anxiety, and fumbled for her pockets. "Sure," the blonde heard herself to say. "I'd really like the chance to catch up. Where're we goin'?"

They ended up at a pasta bar. Explaining her evident shock, Sharon told Brenda, "Hamburgers - he loves them. He'd live on them if I let him."

"You should see the stuff she feeds me. Vegetables nobody's ever heard of, and tofu, tofu, tofu."

Sharon smirked and sipped from her water as she and Brenda waited for the glasses of wine they'd ordered to arrive. "And yet he hasn't gone on hunger strike."

"You come eat with me, Rusty." Brenda gave him a conspiratorial wink. "I'll even let you have dessert."

"Sharon makes clam linguine too," he volunteered. If the memory of dinner at Brenda's was a bad one, it didn't show on his face. As for Brenda, she hadn't managed to feel quite the same at home since she'd shot Stroh in her kitchen. "She says clams aren't supposed to come out of a can. Right, Sharon?"

"Oh, well. I'm sure Sharon's a better cook than I am," Brenda returned, a little put out.

To her surprise, Sharon grinned, an expression Brenda had never seen on her before. "Maybe not," the captain confessed. "Why do you think I use so much tofu? It's indestructible. Rusty, though, is very good in the kitchen. He makes wonderful omelets."

This meal was turning out to be different from what she'd expected, Brenda thought as she looked down at her menu. Not different-bad, but different-good. There was an obvious easy, comfortable rapport between Raydor and Rusty, and rather than alienating Brenda, it was extending to absorb her. She couldn't get over this new, maternal side of Sharon. And yet she wasn't shocked by it. Somehow it seemed like a natural extension of her personality, just not one Brenda had ever contemplated or anticipated.

When Rusty's cell phone rang, Brenda was surprised that Sharon didn't chide him for answering it. She was even more surprised when the older woman gestured for him to leave the table and take the call, but the anxious haste with which Rusty bolted for the door, nearly tripping over his sneakers, gave the ex-deputy chief a clue.

"It's a girl from his class," Sharon confirmed with a slight smile. "There's no need for me to be cruel."

"A teenage boy discoverin' girls - I don't envy you that."

"And not just any teenage boy."

Sharon said it with no particular inflection, but Brenda was reminded of all the issues that had to come with taking in a foster child who had Rusty's background. She remembered the day when, frustrated with having Fritz as her go-between, she had called Major Crimes directly and demanded to know what Captain Raydor was doing about Rusty Beck. The conversation had been much shorter than she had anticipated, because Provenza had said, "Oh. She took the kid home with her," and that had been it.

Like this afternoon, Brenda hadn't known how to react to the news. There had been a problem; Sharon had solved it. That was what Sharon did. If it involved the introduction of an abandoned, sexually and psychologically vulnerable teenager into her home and private life, so be it. It just seemed very Captain Raydor.

Brenda wondered what she would have done in the other woman's place.

"Brenda?"

From the way Sharon said her name, Brenda had the feeling she'd said it before. She looked up from the remains of her farfalle with pesto, an automatic smile in place.

"You were wool-gathering."

"Thank you for doin' all you've done for Rusty," Brenda blurted.

Sharon looked taken aback. "I didn't do it for you."

The blonde felt herself blush. Sharon's wasn't the most gracious response, but she had a point. What business did Brenda have thanking her as if the captain had been doing her a personal favor? She hadn't been, any more than she'd been doing Brenda a favor in dealing with Goldman. She'd been doing her job. And yet...

"Let me tell you, that first day when a uniform brought him to my office, he did not want to see me. He wanted _Br-enda_." The brunette lightly clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she lifted her wine glass, self-deprecating. "Story of my life."

Her office. It took Brenda a second to readjust her mental image and see Sharon not surrounded by files up in FID, but sitting comfortably in Brenda's old domain. "It seems like it all worked out."

"Yes, it did," Sharon agreed. "All of it."

The blonde heaved a sigh. In the next instant she wished she could suck the breath right back in, because now Sharon was scrutinizing her, her eyes attentive.

"Brenda," she began, cautious, "are you all right?"

"Oh, me? Yeah." Brenda smoothed her napkin over her lap. She was being too nonchalant. "I'm just fine."

She felt Sharon watching her, but the captain said nothing. Brenda knew it had to be obvious that she wasn't fine. She wouldn't be sitting here with Sharon Raydor, of all people in God's creation, if she were. Knowing that the other woman was making the tactful choice not to pry was almost worse than if she'd just asked.

Instead Sharon placed her napkin on the table and eased her chair back. "I'll tell Rusty it's time for dessert. Excuse me."

Brenda Leigh just knew Sharon was going to be one of those women who never ordered dessert, but a few minutes later their waiter was delivering three slices of tiramisu to the table.

Sharon watched Rusty's eyes light up as he tasted his first bite. "Hey!" he exclaimed, his lips still wrapped around his spoon. "This is good."

Brenda half expected Sharon to tell him not to talk with his mouth full, but she only grinned again, looking for all the world as if she wanted to ruffle his hair.

Brenda was surprised by how sad she was to see the dinner end, and not just because it meant no more tiramisu.

She'd parked a few spaces away from Sharon, and as the three of them walked through the parking lot, Rusty and the captain had their heads bent together again, speaking in low murmurs. They'd already said goodnight, in the uncomfortable way you said it when you left somewhere and then still had to go in the same direction. Brenda felt foolishly self-conscious, all too certain she was the subject of conversation.

She was close enough to hear the locks on Sharon's car pop a second before she inserted the key into her own driver's side door. "Hey, Brenda?" Rusty called.

She looked back, smiling that rote smile.

"If you're not too busy, it would be cool if you came over for dinner sometime. Like maybe next weekend." Brenda heard Sharon say something, although she couldn't make out the words. "Sunday. And we could watch a movie too. Sharon says no subtitles."

Brenda's eyes found the green orbs glinting at her from behind designer frames. "If Sharon says no tofu too, you're on."

The captain smirked. "Maybe I'll make clam linguine."

"Then I'll pick the movie," Brenda retorted. "I hope y'all like _Steel Magnolias_."

"It's Rusty's favorite."

Brenda looked back one last time to see Sharon still smirking, and Rusty looking alarmed.

Brenda thought she should probably be alarmed too. She'd just accepted an invitation to Darth Raydor's house for dinner and a movie. But her belly was full of pasta and tiramisu, and she didn't have to face the prospect of yet another lonely Sunday spent wandering around the city's cultural institutions. Besides, Rusty would be there, and Brenda was still licensed to carry concealed. So she contented herself with a smile.


	2. 120: Shaun of the Magnolias

**Film Studies 120: Shaun of the Magnolias**

**The film: **_**Shaun of the Dead**_** (dir. Edgar Wright), 2004**

"_Shit_."

In the act of passing the kitchen, Rusty stopped short, so seldom had he heard his foster mother swear, and then it was usually only a 'damn'. Although that one time she'd broken a heel on her fancy shoe she'd dropped the f-bomb. "Sharon?"

"Damn Lieutenant Tao and his inability to get to the point. The roast is completely dry. We can't eat this." Disgusted, she let the oven door slam and removed the large blue oven mitts from her hands, tossing them onto the counter. Her eyes tracked over to the digital clock on the microwave. "I don't have groceries to make anything else, or time. Brenda will be here any minute."

"Okay, so, can't we just order in?"

"That isn't the point." Sharon sighed and looked around to make sure the living room was tidy before she headed to her bedroom. She'd spent the better part of the day at work, and felt like she needed the wardrobe change to shed the frustration of an investigation mired in questions. "Pick up your shoes, and answer the door if the buzzer goes."

"Oh, really? You mean I shouldn't just leave Brenda standing outside?"

"Look through the peephole first," Sharon added. She could all but hear the teen roll his eyes.

Contemplating the contents of her closet, Sharon sighed again. She needed to do laundry. Her nice jeans were dirty, which left only the old battered ones. As she reached for them, she asked herself whether she really intended to welcome Brenda Leigh Johnson into her home for the first time while wearing ripped jeans and with the smell of scorched meat and vegetables hanging in the air.

Yes, she did, she decided, and grabbed a nice top to go with the jeans. It was the best she was going to do.

She still couldn't really believe she'd invited the former deputy chief over here. Even less could she believe the younger woman was actually coming. All week she'd expected her to cancel. To be brutally honest, she'd hoped Brenda would cancel, especially after Major Crimes had rolled out shortly before midnight last night.

At this point, after canvassing the area around their scene and turning up nothing, there was little her squad could do until they got results from ballistics and forensics, so the investigation wasn't enough to offer a reprieve from this anxiety-provoking social situation. Instead, it ensured that she was tired, frazzled, and irritable.

The doorbell rang. Sharon smoothed the short-sleeved red cotton peasant blouse over her waist and shoved her feet into a pair of moccasins.

Brenda and Rusty were still standing by the door exchanging greetings when Sharon appeared. The blonde looked at her and said, "Hey there, Sharon. You sure dressed up."

A muscle in Sharon's jaw twitched. "I've been at work for eighteen hours," she replied tersely. "And hello to you too."

Brenda's smile froze. Sharon noticed that she had lipstick on her teeth. "I just meant I've never seen you in anythin' other than a suit or a skirt and heels. Anythin' that isn't designer."

"I tend not to lounge around my home in Armani. Come in, chief."

Sharon hadn't intended to say that, that 'chief,' and yet as soon as she did, she knew she'd irrevocably set a tone of stilted formality for the evening. At least Brenda's back was turned so she couldn't see the older woman wince.

"Thank you, captain," Brenda replied lightly, doing her best to turn it into a joke. "You have a lovely home." Her eyes moved over the combination of cool and warm colors and then lingered on the framed prints near Sharon's desk. "And you like ballet - Were you a dancer?"

The brunette inclined her head. "Yes, a hundred years ago."

"Oh, sure. Obviously now you're much too... busy."

Brenda trailed off. It would have been difficult to say which of the women looked more horrified by the comment.

"Brenda brought a DVD." Rusty picked it up from where she'd left the movie beside her purse and examined the cover. "_Steel Magnolias_. What -?"

Sharon gaped. "You're not serious."

"You said I could pick the movie."

"If I made clam linguine! It was a joke, Brenda. I did not make clam linguine."

"Yeah, not even my clam linguine smells that bad. What is that?"

The brunette gritted her teeth. "Burned pot roast. Can I get you a drink? Rusty, take Brenda out on the balcony and show her the view. Leave the door open. Maybe the room will air out a bit."

"It's not really _that_ bad," Brenda protested feebly, following Rusty. "Is that white wine? I prefer red, if you have it."

"I don't. You could have brought some."

Sharon worked the corkscrew with a vengeance. Less than five minutes in, and this was turning into a disaster. They shouldn't have tempted fate twice. _Steel Magnolias_? What was Brenda even thinking?

As she poured the wine, Sharon looked up and saw a single, lithe figure silhouetted on the balcony. She realized Rusty had disappeared into the bathroom, where he was probably hiding. He didn't handle conflict well. The captain drew a deep breath and exhaled through her nose the way years of yoga had taught her to do when she felt tense. It was her responsibility to salvage the situation, not just for Rusty, but for the sake of her own pride. She'd dealt with Brenda Leigh Johnson in a professional capacity for years, and could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times the other woman had managed to ruffle her feathers. Why was this so different?

When Sharon stepped onto the balcony and handed Brenda one of the glasses, the blonde managed a tentative smile. "This must be a nice view when it's not so smoggy."

Sharon blinked. "This is chardonnay. I'm sorry if you don't care for it, but it's all I have in the house."

Brenda bit her lip. "I'm sure it's good," she said in a small voice, as if perhaps reliving the etiquette-related admonitions of the late Willie Rae Johnson. "Um, we can watch another movie. D'you have the Netflix?"

"No, you brought a film. We'll watch it." Sharon tipped her glass to her lips and took a generous swallow. "Perhaps Rusty and I will learn something about southern... culture."

She hadn't meant to put that skeptical pause in there, she truly hadn't. Brenda's rudeness was no excuse for Sharon to respond in kind, particularly since she was pretty sure Brenda was simply blundering as badly as she was. Eleanore, her own mother, ever the perfect hostess, would be appalled by her daughter's behavior.

She chose to ignore the flare of Brenda's nostrils. "Since I burned dinner, we'll have to get delivery. What sounds good?"

"I guess Betty Crocker doesn't have to fear any competition from you."

The older woman forced a smile. "No, she does not. Although if Tao were a bit more concise, dinner would have turned out fine. Thai? Vietnamese? Indian?"

"How about Chinese?"

"Yes, that's a safe choice."

Sharon looked out over the valley. She'd had this problem from childhood. That sharp, cold edge crept into her voice, even when she didn't want it to be there, and she couldn't get it out. All she'd meant to say was that everyone liked Chinese food; she hadn't set out to insult Brenda's culinary adventurousness or lack thereof.

"Fine, then. How 'bout Russian? I can translate the menu for y'all."

Sharon licked her lips. Touche. "I believe Rusty would prefer Chinese, but feel free to ask him."

This time Brenda's smile looked less forced. "So this case. Anythin' interestin'?"

"A triple. Clearly gang-related - kids wearing colors and covered in tattoos. However, the crime scene is in the wrong area. Very wrong."

"Meaning?"

"Beverly Hills."

"Hmm. And so you're takin' the night off?"

"We are waiting for results from ballistics and forensics. You see, Brenda, I work for an assistant chief who doesn't bend over backwards to rush my lab work."

"I guess you're just not as charmin' as I am."

"I guess not. Neither have I ever had that type of special relationship with my superiors."

The two women looked at one another. Sharon wondered if she should excuse herself to go take a Xanax.

"And yet," she heard herself continue, "things have been running very smoothly at Major Crimes."

Brenda's dark eyes narrowed, becoming beady. "I'm relieved to hear that."

"I thought you would be."

"Hey, um, are you guys hungry?"

Other than the time he had run away from Flynn at the bus station and then come home, Sharon had never been so happy to see Rusty.

"Starvin'," Brenda replied. "You like Chinese? I'm dyin' for some shrimp lo mein."

"Sweet. I'll get the menus. Sharon, do you want me just to choose some really bland dish for you with lots of vegetables and nothing fried like I usually do?"

The captain rolled her eyes as she followed him into the condo. "Here, East House is the best one." Extracting the proper menu, she handed it to Brenda. "I'll have mu shu pork and an egg roll."

"Mu shu pork, huh? That's a safe choice."

Sharon shook her head, unsure whether she was more annoyed or amused.

"Rusty," Brenda continued, "why don't you go on and pick a movie for us to watch?"

"Uh -" Rusty looked to Sharon for help, but her expression told him nothing. "No, it's cool, Brenda. Let's watch your thing. It's a chick flick, right?"

Brenda's lips pursed with petulance, but before she could protest, Rusty added, "It can't be worse than the stuff Sharon watches. I mean, it's in English, right?"

"Of a sort," Sharon put in, and could have swallowed her tongue. _Stop, stop, stop_.

"It probably has subtitles for Yankees," Brenda retorted. "I'll have the lo mein, and a cup of hot and sour soup. Come on, Rusty, please. Let's go pick another movie. You can show me how to use the Netflix."

"The Netflix," Rusty repeated under his breath, but grinned obligingly.

As Sharon phoned the order in, she resolved - again - to be a better hostess. She was embarrassing herself, not to mention setting a poor example for Rusty. She heard Eleanore's voice explaining, for the umpteen-thousandth time, "_Sharon Louise, this is why people think you're stuck up_." She hadn't anticipated that having Brenda here in her personal space would make her so nervous; and nerves made Sharon edgy, which translated as rudeness.

With all of this firmly in mind, the captain joined the other two in the living room and brightly suggested, "We could start the film while we wait. What are we watching this evening?"

Rusty glanced up from the TV screen, remote in hand. "Uh, _Shaun of the Dead_."

The captain knew what her expression had to look like based on Brenda's response, which was a giggle.

"It's a comedy," the boy continued. "About zombies. And it's British. You like British stuff."

"Sharon Raydor, Anglophile," the blonde put in sassily, and Sharon knew without a doubt that Brenda was hoping the movie would be spectacularly terrible, just to punish her for having objected to _Steel Magnolias_. Sharon then made a third resolution, one she thought she would be better able to keep: she was going to enjoy every second of Rusty's film. She was going to love it.

To her great surprise, the movie was clever. After a few minutes, her resolution was forgotten, and Sharon's enjoyment of the viewing experience had become genuine. Judging by the other woman's laughter, Brenda's had too.

Brenda had a nice laugh, clear and silvery. Sharon had seldom heard it, and found that she liked it, particularly here in her living room.

So what if Brenda had rubbed her the wrong way? It was hardly the first time. When you invited someone into your home, it was your responsibility to make them feel comfortable and welcome. Sharon hadn't done that. After Brenda left here tonight, she would probably never want to see Sharon again. The captain was surprised by the wave of melancholy the thought induced, perhaps just because Sharon Raydor was a perfectionist. She didn't like to fail at anything. That was something the two of them had in common.

Since it was a special occasion, Sharon bent her ironclad no-eating-on-the-couch rule. As Brenda and Rusty pulled the coffee table over so they could put their plates on it, Sharon heard him murmur, "Just don't spill anything. She will _kill_ you." The captain hid a smile. She imagined her living room turned into a crime scene because Brenda Leigh had spilled chardonnay.

"How is your food, Brenda?" Sharon asked politely after a few minutes.

"Good. How's yours?"

"A little greasy," Sharon heard herself say, and again wondered what the hell was wrong with her that she couldn't just say _Fine_. Because yes, it was greasy, but it was also fine.

Rusty looked at her, his mouth half full of spare ribs. "You said the roast was dry," he pointed out. "So greasy should be a step up."

When the world had been saved from the zombie apocalypse and most of the Chinese food had been devoured, Rusty switched the TV back to cable and looked carefully from Sharon to Brenda and back to Sharon. Then he grinned. "You don't have to admit it," he said. "I know you liked it."

Sharon said nothing, because he was quite right.

"Well, I liked it," Brenda spoke up, leaning forward slightly. "It was nice to laugh."

"It was," Sharon agreed, standing and beginning to gather their dishes.

"I'll help."

"Thank you, Brenda. But you and Rusty just sit; I'm going to put them in the dishwasher."

Back in the kitchen, which was starting to feel like her safe space, Sharon sighed. So much for salvaging the evening. Now her only real hope was for it to end as quickly as possible. Maybe she could stay out of the way, let Rusty and Brenda visit. She thought it was good for him to have the deputy chief around, even if Stroh's name never entered into the conversation. Perhaps Rusty would feel more comfortable asking Brenda his questions about being a material witness.

And yet, she didn't really want to stay in the kitchen. She wanted to go out there and have a pleasant conversation - the one thing she seemed incapable of doing tonight. Well, that and cooking a pot roast.

She had half expected Brenda to bolt for the door as soon as the end credits rolled, but the blonde sat on the couch chatting, looking more at ease than she had all evening. Sharon had to hand it to her: Brenda had been a pretty good sport tonight. And Sharon had been rude, snippy, and awkward, awkward, awkward. She felt like she was back in high school.

"Aww, that is gonna be _sweet_," Rusty said, and Sharon looked into the other room to see both of them gazing at the television.

Brenda tilted her head, seeming to consider. Sharon watched the blue light from the screen play across her cheekbones. "I don't know. I preferred the original series. My brothers and I loved those."

"Sure, Christopher Reeve was the definitive Superman. But did you see _Superman Returns_?"

She frowned. "I don't think so."

"You should. You can get it on the Netflix."

Sharon covered her mouth with a dishtowel to suppress the burst of laughter that threatened to erupt.

"This one is going to be awesome. Not that I'll get to see it until, like, next year, though, since my own personal police captain won't let me out of her sight."

"So? I'll take you. Or we can all go, all three of us. What are y'all doin' next weekend?"

Because no one was paying her any attention, Sharon let her jaw drop.

"Seriously, you'd go? No way will Sharon sit through a superhero movie."

"Sure I'll go."

"I'd sit through it."

They both turned to look at her, and Sharon felt herself blush.

"Or you and Brenda can go," she continued, busying herself with the silverware. Rusty probably wouldn't want her to come along, and even if he did, after tonight Brenda certainly wouldn't want her to.

"Let's all go."

Sharon's eyes narrowed as she looked up to study the blonde. Brenda stood and strolled over to the kitchen. As far as the older woman could tell, Brenda's expression was guileless. "Is Sunday good again?" Brenda asked. "Or would Saturday be better? I can do either."

"Let's say Sunday, unless we catch a -"

"A murder. Of course." As she spoke, Brenda scooped up her purse and her neglected copy of _Steel Magnolias_.

"Well, if we do, you and Rusty can still go. Just watch out - he can eat his weight in popcorn."

"Then we'll get along just fine."

The two women stood smiling and nodding at one another. As the moment stretched out, Sharon had the absurd thought that they would be there forever, just smiling and nodding because neither of them knew what to say or how to end this strange evening.

"I guess I should go. Work in the mornin'."

"Of course. And Rusty has school." Sharon stepped out of the kitchen and around to Brenda's side. "Thank you for coming. I, ah - thank you for coming," she repeated inanely as they walked toward the door, but at least they were moving now.

"It was, you know, it was interestin'. Good night, Rusty."

"Night, Brenda," he called back.

"Good night, Brenda," Sharon echoed more formally.

"Good night, cap - _Sharon_. I'll call you about next weekend."

After the door had closed, Sharon stood for a moment, just gazing at it. A sense of consternation filled her. She'd just spent one of the most uncomfortable evenings in recent memory, alternating continuously between sticking her foot in her mouth and being a total bitch, all thanks to Brenda Leigh Johnson - and yet she'd gone out of her way to sign up for more of the same, with an action movie tossed in for good measure. Perhaps what her friends had been saying about her since she'd first chosen Internal Affairs all those years ago was true: Sharon had a masochistic streak a mile wide.


	3. 130: Women of Steel

**Film Studies 130: Women of Steel**

**The film: **_**Man of Steel**_** (dir. Zack Snyder), 2013**

1.

Captain Raydor was standing in the media room, one hand resting on the back of Provenza's chair, the other tapping out a silent rhythm against her hip, discussing the non-results of the interview Sanchez and Flynn had just conducted with a two-strike, mid-level One-Niner, when Tao poked his head in.

"Ah, captain, Agent Morris is here, at long last."

Raydor's lips thinned. "Agent Morris again, not Agent Howard?"

Tao shrugged. Provenza looked more like a grumpy bulldog than usual.

Sharon straightened her spine and rolled her stiff neck as she walked down the hall toward the Murder Room. Morris - _ideal_.

What they needed was simple enough. The FBI had a want out on their main - okay, their only - suspect in the triple homicide they'd picked up last Saturday night, but the Bureau was being suspiciously close-mouthed about why they were so interested in Randall Williams, or, even more to the point given the lack of progress her investigation was making, if the feds knew where Williams was. Raydor and her team were pretty damn sure they knew the answers to both questions (Williams hadn't shown himself to be a criminal mastermind, and it was unlikely he possessed the know-how to fall off the radar as quickly and suddenly as he had), but you could only go so far with pretty damn sure.

"Agent Morris," Sharon greeted the pale-faced man when she was still several feet away, including the other members of her team in the conversation. "So kind of you to come, finally. I expected Agent Howard."

Morris responded with one of his usual fish-eyed stares. "Well, you've got me."

"Yes, and what is the reason for that? Agent Howard is still the FBI liaison to the LAPD, or did I miss a memo?"

"Look, Howard took extended personal leave. You want to talk about Randy Williams, you can talk to me."

"And I do, agent. Randall Williams is the prime suspect in a triple homicide. We know you want him too, but we don't know why."

"Mr. Williams is a person of interest to the Bureau in connection with a drug-related matter."

Raydor hummed, unimpressed. From over her shoulder, Flynn said, "Oh, okay. A drug-related matter. That clears it up."

"Would this 'drug-related matter,'" Sharon repeated, enunciating with extra care as she shifted her weight from one high heel to the other, "pertain to certain unusual activities within the Salizar cartel?"

Morris smiled blandly. "I can neither confirm nor deny that at this time."

"And I don't suppose you can confirm or deny whether you've got him holed up in some nice, cozy safe house either," Provenza spoke up.

"That's correct, lieutenant. I can't. So if that's all, I'll be going. Please contact me if I can be of any further assistance."

Raydor said nothing, but her pursed lips suggested she doubted that Morris could ever be of any use to anyone, anywhere.

"Give our regards to Agent Howard!" Provenza blustered at Morris's retreating back.

"The freakin' FBI has him," Flynn burst out angrily. "They're protecting the little jumped-up creep because he's flipping on Salizar, and we can't even talk to him!"

Still Sharon said nothing. It was frustrating, certainly. Inconvenient.

"As long as he's in FBI custody, at least we can hope he won't be committing more murders," the captain sighed at last. "We'll try again tomorrow with any One-Niners we can round up. If we can dig up a witness or find the vehicle Williams used, we will have leverage with the Bureau. Julio, I may want you to go to San Quentin. For now, everyone go home and make it an early night."

"What happened to Agent Howard?"

Rusty was sitting so quietly in the chair in her office that Sharon had almost forgotten he was there.

"I mean, isn't it Agent Howard's job to help you guys? And he's better than this Agent Morris, right?"

"Well, he's usually a lot more personable." _Yes, he's better_, Sharon thought as she set about gathering her things. Morris complained that Major Crimes as a unit was spoiled and expected him to bend the rules to the division's whims, but the argument didn't work well on Sharon, who valued rules more than most people. She looked at Morris and saw a law enforcement officer lacking in both intuition and ingenuity. If they were going to have him as FBI liaison - a stumbling block rather than a stepping stone - it would be better to have no liaison at all.

"You don't think Agent Howard is sick or anything, do you? Brenda would have said something."

"I'm sure she would," Sharon agreed. "Come on, let's go. I've had enough of this place for one day."

They were in the elevator, headed down to the garage, when Rusty offered, "You could ask her on Sunday."

"It wouldn't be appropriate for me to ask."

"But we're still going, right?"

"Right," Sharon confirmed, and wondered why she got herself into these things. She also wondered what was going on with Brenda and Fritz, but shut that line of thinking down before her prurient curiosity got off and running.

The next morning the Murder Room was quiet, with only Provenza and Amy at their desks. Raydor had dispatched the rest of the squad in search of any and all other possible links between three dead One-Niners and Randall Williams. Sharon sat at her own desk, sipping rapidly cooling coffee and going over files for the dozenth time in the hope of finding something they'd missed, when a rap sounded on her open door. She looked up to see a rumpled Fritz Howard.

"Agent Howard," she greeted him with a genuine smile.

"Do you have a few minutes, captain?"

Half rising, she gestured toward her visitors chairs. "Please, sit. I didn't expect to see you," she continued. "Agent Morris told us you were on leave."

"Can't stay on vacation forever," Fritz replied grimly. As she readjusted her position in her chair, Sharon peered up over the rims of her glasses to get a good look at the man's face. Agent Howard did not look like someone who'd been on vacation. As if reading her mind, he scrubbed his fingers over the five o'clock shadow darkening his chin and said, "Your man Randall Williams is in protective custody."

"I know."

Fritz looked at her for a few seconds before blinking. "Morris said he didn't give you anything."

The captain didn't bother trying to hide her smirk. "Agent Morris was incredibly vague about the reasons behind the FBI's interest in Randall Williams, and called him Randy." She relished the name, rolling the syllables over her tongue. "The pieces weren't that hard to put together."

"Well." Howard settled back in his chair, hands clasped loosely between his knees. "That's Morris for you."

Raydor rested her elbows on the edge of her desk. "If my detectives find evidence that connects your Mr. Williams to our triple homicide - as I believe they will, despite certain obstacles - I assume I can count on the FBI's full cooperation."

"Randall Williams is providing vital information to help the Bureau finally make a case that will get the key members of the Salizar family in front of a jury."

"Randall Williams," Sharon returned, "is a _murderer_."

The two of them gazed at one another across the expanse of the desk for several beats.

"I'll see what I can do, captain."

She smiled. "Thank you, Agent Howard."

Looking down, she straightened a stack of papers at her elbow and waited for the agent to take his leave. He didn't. She glanced up without lifting her head, wondering if he had forgotten that this was no longer his wife's office.

"You know, there's no reason for you always to be so formal. My name is Fritz."

"Oh. Well." Sharon sat up straighter. She'd been taken by surprise. "I do believe there is an intrinsic value in adhering to protocol and rank."

His eyebrows arched. "All right, Captain Raydor."

She felt ridiculous. "Sharon," she murmured. When he smiled, she smiled back, embarrassed. She was doing her best to keep her curiosity about the state of affairs between Brenda and Fritz from rushing back full force, and failing.

"I hear Chief Pope has nothing but good things to say about the way you're handling this division."

"Well, that is gratifying. We haven't seen much of Chief Pope here on the ninth floor recently."

"I suppose his primary object of interest is gone," Fritz retorted, looking pointedly around the office that was now decorated according to Sharon's taste.

The captain cleared her throat. She was growing progressively more uncomfortable. "We see plenty of Chief Taylor in his stead."

She wasn't sure he even heard her, his eyes still roving around the room. "I like your green chair."

"Thank you." She shuffled the papers she had just stacked, and then stood. "If there's nothing else, I should -"

"Have you seen Brenda lately?"

Behind her glasses, Sharon's eyes widened. "Our paths haven't crossed professionally since she moved over to the D.A.'s office." As soon as the words left her mouth, she wondered what reason she had for preferring not to mention Sunday evening. She supposed it was because he didn't already know.

"I know, but I thought maybe - never mind."

The land-line on the desk rang, and Sharon vowed to stop at church on her way home and light a candle in gratitude. "Raydor."

"Hey, captain. I tried callin' your cell, but you didn't answer."

Sharon squared her shoulders. "Oh, hell-_o_. I can't really talk right now. I'm in the middle of something."

"This'll just take a minute. I'm gonna buy the movie tickets in advance. Should I get the regular or the IMAX?"

The captain turned away, shielding the phone against her shoulder as much as she could. "I suggest that you use your own discretion."

"Uh. Okay then, Capt'n Raydor. See you this weekend."

As she replaced the receiver, Sharon looked guiltily at Fritz, but his features remained neutral.

"I'll get outta your hair," he said, at long last moving toward the door. "I'm sure we'll see each other soon. Maybe we could grab dinner sometime."

Sharon smiled and nodded in the least committal manner possible. Movie time with Brenda Leigh was bad enough; she had zero desire to spend an hour and a half making small talk with the woman's husband. Ten minutes had sapped her verbal resources. Besides, although Sharon had always respected Howard as an agent and vastly preferred him to Morris, she wouldn't go so far as to say she liked the man. Something about him had always annoyed her, like the tickling sensation when something unseen brushed against your skin and you wondered if it might be a spider. Perhaps it had originated in the rather possessive way he'd conducted himself around the former deputy chief, or in Sharon's sense that, despite the similarities in their personalities, Fritz had done more harm than good when it came to convincing Brenda both that Captain Raydor wasn't the enemy and that Brenda needed to act in her own best interest.

How odd that, although Brenda was the one with whom Sharon had more than once done outright battle, she should prefer the thought of spending time with her.

At the thought of the time she would soon be spending with the other woman, the captain reached into her purse for her cellphone. Squinting, she selected the number of her latest missed call and tapped out a text reply: "I think Rusty would like IMAX. See you Sunday."

2.

By the time Sunday rolled around, Williams was cooling his heels in county lock-up, it was pouring down rain, and Sharon was so irritated with Rusty that she was glad for any excuse not to have to converse with him for two hours, even if it meant enduring Superman on a very, very big screen.

More than anyone else, Sharon understood - on levels Rusty couldn't even begin to fathom - what a difficult time the teenager had been having for the past few weeks. She hadn't been having a great time of it herself, what with the worry of the threatening letter constantly nagging at the back of her mind, preventing her from ever being totally at ease. With his freedom curtailed, Sharon knew that both Rusty's sense of independence and the security the two of them had worked hard to build over the past year had suffered. Lately he had been cagey, even secretive; and each time he glimpsed Emma Rios, his eventual testimony at Stroh's trial had to loom large in his thoughts. Then this week there had been the thing with his friend Kris, which had not been at all the thing Sharon had anticipated after discovering that the masculine name belonged to a sweetly pretty young girl who had nothing better to do with her time than spend it studying vocabulary inside a police station.

Still, that didn't alter the fact that Rusty's attitude and monosyllabic replies were getting on her next-to-last nerve.

Preoccupied with these things, Sharon herded Rusty under her umbrella so that he wouldn't get soaked, despite his apparent disdain for the elements. Their hips bumped as they crossed the rain-slicked parking lot.

"Rusty, hey, man."

At the sound of the boy's voice, both the captain and her ward turned. Rusty waved at a tall, skinny kid in tight jeans and a blue hoodie. "That's Ehab, from chess club. I don't have to have permission to go talk to him, do I?"

Sharon gave him a look. "I'll be in the lobby with Brenda."

The blonde was clearly visible from where she stood just inside the glass. She waved enthusiastically at the older woman. "Friend a' his?" she greeted the captain once they were within speaking range. "You look exhausted - no offense."

"So do you. Also no offense."

"This week was a rough one."

"Same here," Sharon agreed, determined to avoid a repeat of last week's extreme awkwardness. "That investigation, the triple I told you about, turned out to be very frustrating. And things at home aren't always easy."

Brenda sighed. "Tell me about it. And all this free time I have thanks to my new job - if it's a blessin' in disguise, it's very well disguised."

Sharon's lips quirked. "Maybe a couple of hours of mindless entertainment is exactly what the doctor ordered."

"Maybe."

Always on the alert, Sharon observed as Rusty and his friend entered the lobby, Rusty saying something to Ehab before walking toward where the two women stood in the concession stand line. "Hey, Brenda. Sharon, Ehab and his brother are going to the same movie we are. It's cool for me to sit with them, right?"

Sharon glanced at Brenda before acquiescing, and the blonde presented Rusty's ticket to him with a flourish. At least Rusty offered a "thanks a lot" before returning to his friend.

The brunette sighed. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't apologize. He's a kid. And it must be tough on him right now, not gettin' to go out with his friends."

Sharon nodded. "But he can buy his own popcorn."

Brenda grinned. "They don't sell booze, do they? I could use a drink."

"In the middle of the afternoon?"

"It's not like it's the middle of the mornin'. But I'm sure they don't have anythin' stronger than Coca-Cola anyway."

Sharon hesitated. Brenda looked more haggard than the captain had ever seen her look on the job, even at her very worst moments. The fatigued circles below her eyes showed like purple bruises against her milky flesh.

Sharon knew she was likely to regret what she was about to do, and she knew she was going to do it anyway.

"You know, Brenda, Rusty is perfectly safe with his friend. I don't know how enthusiastic you are about _Man of Steel_, but if you're more excited about a real drink, we could go to one of the restaurants in the mall and have one."

The younger woman's jaw slackened and her eyes rounded. "Really? You'd want to?"

Sharon's teeth met in a dazzling smile. "IMAX makes me dizzy anyway."

"Oh my goodness, me too."

"That's settled, then. Let me tell Rusty we'll meet him back here as soon as the film is over."

Brenda turned back toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the drizzle as she waited. Rusty's voice drifted across the lobby: "Yeah, I get it. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars."

The younger woman was smirking when Sharon returned to her side. "You heard that? The joys of raising a teenager, particularly one who thinks you've placed him under house arrest. Now, where can we get you something fruity that comes with a paper umbrella?"

"What makes you think that's what I like?"

"Isn't it? That or a vat of red wine?"

Unlike last Sunday evening, Sharon was fairly sure the teasing undercurrent in her voice was audible. She was rewarded with a smile.

"No, it is. And what about you? Scotch? Straight vodka?"

"Rotgut," Sharon retorted as they walked into the mall and made a beeline for the nearest chain restaurant.

The idea of spending two hours with Brenda without Rusty as a buffer or a movie to entertain them was daunting. But, Sharon figured, at least there would be alcohol.

Despite the names she had been called in the past by disgruntled co-workers undergoing IA scrutiny, Sharon Raydor was neither callous nor obtuse; she had no trouble discerning others' emotions, even if she often chose not to react to them. Furthermore, a lifetime of reserve, both natural and externally imposed, had taught her to be wary of expressing her own feelings. They were always there, quickening to life below the surface as stimuli arose. And today the stimulus was a fragile-looking, lonely woman in the throes of apparent marital difficulties. As someone who had been in the same situation, the least Sharon could offer was a big fruity cocktail and a willing ear.

A few weeks ago Sharon would have expected Brenda to reject both if they were coming from her, but the woman's recent behavior had shown Sharon that now she would accept. There was something forlorn and a little lost about the normally self-possessed, single-minded belle from hell. Sharon recognized both feelings, as well as the eager, even desperate way Brenda had reached out to her and Rusty. She'd seen all of it often enough before, looking right back at her when she studied her own reflection in a mirror.

Brenda needed a friend. Sharon thought she wouldn't mind being that friend.

"The drink is on me," Sharon murmured as they settled at a high-top table, both stripping away light sweaters to reveal simple t-shirts and jeans. "I'm sorry you wasted your money on the movie tickets."

"It's not a waste," Brenda protested, flipping her menu open and paging through it until she reached the specialty cocktails. "It got me outta my house, Rusty's havin' a nice time with his friend without you lookin' over his shoulder, and you have to buy me a drink."

"A big drink. Rum runner?"

"I hate the way you think you've got me figured out, Sharon Raydor." Brenda signaled to the waiter, and when he came over, she said, "Two rum runners."

Raydor smirked.

They were quiet for a moment, and then Sharon said, oh-so-casually, "I saw Agent Howard the other day."

Brenda's head whipped up from her appraisal of the tabletop. "Fritz is back?"

The captain nodded.

Brenda's gaze dropped back to the table. "I suppose it's glarin'ly obvious that everythin' pretty much went straight to hell after I left the LAPD."

Sharon licked her lips and studied the little condiment tower that rested between them. "I wouldn't put it that way."

"But you do know. I suppose everybody knows."

"No, Brenda," Sharon replied gently, "I don't think everybody knows. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

They sat quietly until the drinks arrived.

"Is that what this is about? You feelin' sorry for me?" Brenda asked, her voice tight with hostility.

"Not at all. I thought maybe you could use a friend."

"We're not friends."

Green eyes met and held brown. "All right, then. I thought you could use a former colleague with whom to watch films and make stilted small talk."

"Because that's your specialty?"

"Indeed."

"You _are_ very good at it."

Again they just looked at one another for a moment.

"If that's what this is, then okay. But if it's about you feelin' sorry for me, I'd rather be alone."

Sharon shrugged. "Maybe I'm a little tired of being alone."

After a pause, Brenda hoisted her untouched rum runner. "What should we drink to?"

"Oh - to films, I suppose."

"To films," Brenda agreed. Their glasses clinked together, and then they both drank from the potent, fruity concoctions.

"You know, Sharon -" Brenda glanced down, twirling her little pink paper umbrella, and then back up, directly into the other woman's serious eyes. "I do know that the two of us have a lot in common."

"Absolutely." Sharon quirked a one-sided smile at her from above the rim of her glass. "We're both terrible cooks. Or so I've heard."

An unladylike snort was the blonde's response. "Well, I'd invite you over to see for yourself, but I don't really have a kitchen right now. I _am_ serious."

"I know. You and I are far more alike than we are different." The captain paused to sip through her straw, amusement mingling with the earnestness in her gaze. "I've always assumed that's why we don't get along."

"That, and because I outranked you." Sharon nearly spat rummy punch across the table, and Brenda laughed merrily. "We're gettin' along well enough now."

"Yes, we are."

"I promise not to try givin' you orders."

"It wouldn't go well."

They smiled at one another.

"That said, I really think it's only fair that I get to pick the next movie, since I've been shot down twice."

"Now, that isn't precisely true. _You_ insisted we eighty-six _Steel Magnolias_, and I was perfectly willing to see this _Man of Steel._"

"Are you arguin' just for the sake of bein' contrary?"

"I am stating the facts."

Brenda sniffed. "And_ I_ am choosin' the next movie we watch."

Sharon said nothing. Instead, she grinned as she ducked her head and took a long pull from her straw. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or perhaps she had managed to redeem herself in the wake of last week's hostessing disaster. The facts were that Brenda was the owner of a tiny pink paper umbrella, and that there were more movie screenings in their future. In any case, Sharon was willing to count this as a victory.


End file.
